The Wit and Wisdom of a Volleyball Named Wilson
by Luke Skywaxer
Summary: here is my take on what was really going on in Chuck’s head during those years we didn’t see. When the sun was tanning his skin and bleaching his hair, it was also baking his already fried brain…
1. Footprints

_I don't own Cast Away, but I loved that Movie!_ _So here is my take on what was really going on in Chuck's head during those years we didn't see. When the sun was tanning his skin and bleaching his hair, it was also baking his already fried brain…_

**Footprints in the Sand**

Chuck waited for Wilson to come rolling around the corner. He was going to play ball tag with him, but it would be a surprise. Heh heh heh.

Suddenly a strange man dressed in a long sleeved orange shirt, white pants and a white hat appeared, carrying the volleyball under his arm. He turned and saw Chuck crouching in the bushes.

"Whoa," said the man, dropping Wilson on the sand. "You scared the living technicolor out of me!"

Chuck was so shocked he just managed to drool and say, "Whuhuppablopooha."

"Wow, a real live headhunter said the man." And he peered in closer at Chuck. "I've got to tell the Skipper and Mary Ann on the other side of the island, right away." And with that, the skinny man turned and ran off into the jungle.

Chuck leaped to his feet and listened to the receding footfalls. Suddenly a coconut dropped next to him and he nearly jumped out of his beard. Now things were really going strange. He had been on this island for three years already and thought he had explored every inch of it. For heaven's sake, he had gotten way past jumping at the sound of a coconut. But now he was losing it. A man had appeared, an apparition. And somehow he had seemed…familiar?

It was his overactive imagination playing tricks on him again. But the next day he was already getting his gear together to explore the other side of the island. Maybe he had overlooked something. Like other cast aways?

Walking along the beach, he stopped and pointed down.

"Do you see what I see, Wilson?"

Wilson was riding on Chuck's back in a mesh hammock made from a woman's dress. He rolled to the top of the man's shoulder and looked down at what he was pointing at. "Yeah, it's a footprint," he said in that perfect British accent of his.

"I know!"

"It's your_ own_ footprint, you…you silly _oyster smoker!"_

Chuck scrutinized it a little more carefully. "Oh," he said finally. So it was. The two of them reluctantly continued on their way with Wilson entertaining Chuck, telling joke after joke and Chuck laughing his fool head off, which you should never do when walking alone with a volleyball in the jungle on a deserted island.

They came to the other side of the island and walked right into an episode of alternate-retro-reality. There were several people, including two young and beautiful women, tied to poles near some bamboo altars. Two men were already strapped on top of the altars. Fires blazed beneath them but somehow they weren't dying of smoke inhalation. A man in a grass skirt with crazy hair, war paint, and some wild boar tusks jutting from either side of his nose suddenly stopped in the middle of a ritualistic dance and looked at Chuck.

"_Ooga Booga_," said the witch doctor, pointing at him.

Chuck followed the man's gaze and saw that two other headhunters were starting to their feet and looking toward him, a devilish gleam in their beady black eyes. They raised their machetes and Chuck got the idea that they had evil intentions…about him!

He turned and fled with Wilson back into the jungle. The volleyball balanced on his shoulder, calling back to their pursuers. "Help, Help, he's insane! I'm just a victim here, save me!"

"Shut up, Wilson, or I swear I'll punt you into the ocean." But even as he said it, he knew he could never give up his only friend. Unless, of course, he could exchange him for the pretty one back there tied to the post, the one with the red herr and mole. Sigh. I love red herr, he thought, ducking as a spear flew past them.

He would find a way to get back and save the whole group. They looked lucky. Maybe they could help get him off of this island.


	2. Operation Rescue

_I don't know but i think im improving. ha ha, Okay, i admit, i had some help with this chapter from a good fiend who also writes fanfiction. This is more wit and wisdom of a Volleyball named Wilson._

_I'll try to log any major changes and corrections i make to the chapters at the bottom of each chapter. Thanks for reading and please review. It helps a lot!_

**Operation Rescue**

Chuck had gathered all the equipment he would need: rope; flint knife; ice-skate tomahawk; and most important—his latest creation—a bazooka made from bamboo which could shoot projectiles or harpoon-darts using the expanding gases created from ignited coconut moonshine. Chuck had been saving that moonshine, but this was an emergency.

"Well, not really an _emergency_," he confided to Wilson who was sitting on a rock in the cave, watching his every move. "It's actually more of an _opportunity_ of sorts." Chuck smiled, staring into space. He was thinking about the Redhead he had seen earlier that day.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably and remained silent.

"Oh, what? Are you worried I'm thinking of replacing you? Ha ha, Oh Wilson, I could never replace you. Don't be silly." Chuck stopped what he was doing and gave a reassuring look to the volleyball.

Wilson just kept staring at him with his unemotional flaming eyes, so Chuck shrugged and went back to his work. He was rigging up a pack to carry everything with him so that he could get to any one of his items in a hurry.

He started thinking about Kelly. Should he bring her picture with him? Hmm, maybe not. What if the Redhead saw it and started asking questions, then what would he say?

His eyes drifted over to Wilson. The volleyball had aged since they'd first met a few years ago. He no longer had that full, rounded, white, ball-shapedness that had characterized him at the beginning. His blood-painted-on face had weathered and cracked in places, and he had sprouted grass for hair (Chuck had done the styling). Basically, the volleyball had taken on a native tribal look. Heck, his best friend more resembled a head-hunter than a ball!

Or…

Chuck paused from his work again and took a good long look at Wilson, seeing him for the first time the way an actual headhunter might. The volleyball actually looked like a giant _head!_ A talking head, a laughing and joking head, but a _head_ all the same. The very sight of him might make a Pacific Islander drool in anticipation. Hmmm, Chuck might be able to simply offer the head to them in exchange for…

_What am I thinking!? Have I lost it?_ _This is Wilson I'm talking about here, not just some crazy head!_ Chuck felt guilty for even having the thought. He saw the volleyball eyeing him and had to turn his head away for a second or two. Chuck quickly finished his work and strapped the pack on. He looked back to Wilson, nodded, and the volleyball begrudgingly rolled to his outstretched hand and up to his shoulder. They were ready.

"Wagons a ho!" sang Chuck. And he started from the cave, waded back to the beach, and headed into the jungle. As they went, Chuck swung the ice-skate tomahawk like a machete, blazing a path toward the other side of the island.

* * *

Wilson was in a bad mood. They had been walking for an hour and, by this time, not only was he griping at every step, but he was beginning to find ways of needling the back of Chuck Noland's neck with his spiny hair.

"Ouch, Wilson! For the last time, stop being such a prick."

"Well, you might walk a bit more smoothly," said the volleyball in his proper British accent, wobbling on the man's shoulder. "It's not as easy as you think, riding up here with all this extra bootie on your back, I hope you know."

"I've explained all that 'bootie,' as you call it," said Chuck patiently. "We need it for the rescue."

"And _I, _my fine fellow_, _have explained all of _this_ to _you" _snapped Wilson. "There is no one to rescue on this blooming island aside from you, you dimwit! I've been telling you and telling you: This whole charade is in your mind. But will you heed my words of lucid insight? No! You keep talking about the women, the women." The volleyball gave a little snort sound in Chuck's ear. "But, I'm telling you: There aren't any other castaways. It's all just a stupid little game your mind is playing on us. Some sort of self therapy. See? You think if you rescue these 'others' you'll somehow rescue yourself. Well, I'm telling you, it won't work. No matter how many games you play, its still just you and me, on this island for the rest of your life!"

"Oh, okay," said Chuck. He was finally getting tired of listening to the nonsense. "So now you're a psychiatrist, huh? Dr. Wilson, I presume? Is that it?"

"At your service. I'll play whatever role you want to cast me in."

"I'll cast you into a roll…upside your head one good…if you don't shut up for a second or two so I can think!"

"Fine!"

"Fine, good, whatever! Just shut up and stop complain-complain-complaining! Pheww, a guy could lose his mind with you belly-aching all the time."

"I stopped talking a long time ago," said the volleyball quietly. "You're the one who keeps chat-chat-chattering."

They walked in silence for a while and then Chuck came to a stop and cocked an ear. He listened to the jungle for a few minutes. "Shhhh" he whispered.

"I didn't _say _anything!" said Wilson much too loudly for Chuck.

Chuck snatched him off his shoulder and made as if to throw the volleyball off into the jungle. His eyebrows rose so far up his forehead Wilson thought they were lost forever in the man's bushy hair. Next, the two of them would surely be forming a rescue party to locate the missing brows. Also in sympathetic unison, Chuck's eyeballs nearly popped from their sockets with seriousness.

He didn't throw the ball.

They glared at each other for a few seconds and then Chuck jerked a finger to his lips, the gesture acting as a final warning. Wilson rolled his eyes and looked the other way, so Chuck put him back on his shoulder. After a moment of sizzling silence, the two of them crept slowly forward. The man kneeled down, pushed aside the ferns, and looked into the clearing.

There were the bamboo altars and the poles. The other castaways were each bound and ready to become someone's dinner. Fires blazed beneath the altars and the men on top writhed and moaned in agony. Chuck cringed. How could they even survive the smoke inhalation alone? Maybe they were used to this sort of thing.

He counted them. Three women. Four men. Rats, the ratio was already against him. Then he looked at the men again. _Well, they might not be too much competition, _he thought. A big fat guy in a blue shirt and a captain's hat laid there, his weight flexing the bamboos nearly to their breaking point. Then there was the skinny, dumb guy that Chuck had seen earlier that morning when all of this had started. The boy certainly didn't look like he would be much help in a fight. Did the headhunters actually figure on getting some meat off the kid? Then there was an old guy who looked about to die. Even from the distance, Chuck could see he was soft and unaccustomed to the rigors of Island hardship. Where had these people come from? Finally, a tall handsome man dressed all in white was just being bound to an altar next to the fat guy.

"Ha!" Chuck whispered to Wilson. "Let's see, and what were you saying about there not being any other castaways?"

"Exactly. I don't see anyone," said Wilson calmly.

And Chuck slapped the palm of his hand over the volleyball's mouth. "Whisper!" he mouthed.

Chuck set the Wilson on the ground and gave him an open palm "stay-where-you-are" gesture. Wilson only glared back at him_. _

_Great! Now the little guy's feelings are hurt,_ thought Chuck. _But it's his own fault, living in denial like he does, and just to win an argument, too._ Boy, sometimes Chuck really had to worry about his little buddy's sanity…


	3. Fantasy Island

_This here is the conclusion of The Wit and Wisdom of a Volleyball Named Wilson. It was my own take on what might have happened in Chuck's mind during the years the movie didn't let us see. Hope you've enjoyed reading. Please, let me know what you think._

**Fantasy Island**

The head-hunters had chased them over hill and over dale, but finally gave up and returned to their barbecue. Chuck and Wilson snuck back and watched through the ferns as the tortuous ceremony resumed.

"Is this about over?" asked Wilson, yawning. "I'm getting ti—"

Chuck slapped his palm over the volleyball's mouth. But it was okay, no one out there had heard.

The headhunters were all busy poking their fingers into the large fat man, drooling and muttering to one another. Even the witch doctor appeared to be arguing for his own favorite recipe to be used. It gave Chuck the opportunity he was looking for. He managed to creep around to the backside of the poles where the skinny guy and the gals were being kept. Quietly, he began sawing through their bindings with the blade of the ice skate.

"Oh, I remember you!" said the skinny guy cheerfully. "I thought you were a headhunter, but now that I have some real ones to compare, you don't look like one at all. Those guys out there with the mean looking machetes are headhunters, but you aren't one of them." He paused for a second, looking uncertain. "Are you?"

Chuck shook his head. No, he wasn't a headhunter, just one of the head-hunt_ed_. He motioned for the boy to keep his voice down.

"Gilligan, who are you talking to?" said the red head.

"Just a guy from the other side of the island."

"Hi," said Chuck, bashfully. He had to push the barrel of his bamboo spud gun out of the way to see her face better. Movie-star-beautiful, that's what she was. For sure. He wavered his fingertips pathetically at her.

"Well, hello there." The red head wrinkled her nose in a cutesy sort of way when she smiled. It made Chuck feel all nervous and he nearly dropped the ice skate.

"Don't stop now, Baby, not until I have my arms around you. I'm Ginger. And I haven't seen a real man in years."

"And my name is Mary Ann," said the shorter girl, now leaning around her own binding-pole to smile at Chuck. "Undo me next. I'll make you a coconut cream pie."

There was something very familiar and somehow wrong about all of this, but Chuck couldn't seem to register it. He was feeling dizzy. Maybe that was just his heart going, _pitter patter, pitter patter._ Yeah, that must be it. It had been a while since he himself had seen a real woman. Now there were two of them right here within reach, both promising things he once thought he could only dream of experiencing again. However, when he looked to his shoulder for confirmation, Wilson just stared back at him with those unblinking eyes of his. Yes, there was definitely something wrong in all of this, but Chuck didn't want to think about it right now. He resumed his rescue with added determination.

Soon he had the two girls free and was working on the older lady who told him she was very wealthy and would gladly pay him millions to also save her husband. Chuck looked to the old man now roasting over the fire. The geezer looked like a lost cause to Chuck. But the money thing sounded good. Maybe he could get to the old guy next.

The two girls were beginning to tug at his arms, urging him to take them to safety. He looked around. Gilligan was still half bound to his stake where Chuck had gotten distracted. And the old lady was safe for the time being. Chuck guessed he could afford to whisk these two beautiful girls away to shelter and then return for the others. They would be alright. Surely, he would be back in time to save them.

"Hang in there, Little Buddy," Chuck whispered, patting Gilligan on the shoulder as he passed. He took the two girls by their hands. "I'll be back for you in no time."

"Okay. Thanks."

He could feel the boy's hopeful eyes like barbs piercing his conscience as he moved away through the ferns and tropical underbrush. Once they had gotten out of sight from the headhunter's camp, though, that eyes-in-his-back feeling became dimmer until Chuck could hardly even remember what the kid looked like. He was too busy now just trying to keep up with the red head. And the brunette with her tight shorts and halter top was, in her own way, quite distracting. They trudged on and on, looking for a safe place, but nothing seemed quite right.

"I could take you back to my cave where you'll be very safe," said Chuck, panting. It would take hours to get there, but what else could they do?

The brunette's eyes sparkled, "Oh Ginger, our he-man wants to take us to his cave!"

"This reminds me of a movie I was in once," said the other, and she began telling them the plot of the story line. She talked on and on. Of course, they couldn't interrupt. The three of them stood there for several minutes while Ginger rehearsed the entire scene to them. Wilson, who was still perched on Chuck's shoulder, sighed and went to sleep.

"…and then the cave man comes up to the girl and pushes her down onto this bed of saber-toothed tiger skins, you see?" Ginger was saying.

Chuck nodded enthusiastically, then glanced at Mary Ann who seemed to be pouting up at him. That stopped him. Was she jealous for his attention? Chuck realized then he really just wanted to get these girls to safety. Maybe Ginger's story was about done.

"…Well, you knew they were saber-toothed tigers because there was a head of one of the cats hanging on the wall of the cave…" explained Ginger.

"Ginger," Mary Ann said, whining a little bit, "please don't use the word 'head' in the same sentence with 'hanging on the wall' it makes me frightened."

Suddenly there was a chilling scream from back at the headhunter camp. Chuck stared in horror at the girls. They hadn't seemed to notice. They smiled up at him, batting eyelashes and looking dreamy. "Come-on, Caveman, Dear," they seemed to be saying to him with their eyes. "Take us to your cave, show us your skins."

"Wilson!" Chuck plucked the drowsy volleyball from his perch and held his friend in front of him. "Take these girls back to the cave! I've got to rescue the others."

"No Caveman! No, don't leave us!"

He stomped on, letting their disconsolate cries ebb to a muffled buzz as he tore through the jungle once again. It was okay, he could trust Wilson. The girls would be okay. For now, he had to save the other survivors.

He burst out into the clearing for the second time that day, steadied his bamboo cannon over his shoulder, squirted some moonshine into the chamber, resealed it, and lit the fuse with a live coal he'd wrapped in some tree bark. The headhunters swung around and gaped at him as he leveled the weapon at the biggest guy.

"Ooga Booga?" the witch doctor said.

"KA-BOOOM," answered the cannon, drowning out all other _Ooga Boogas_.

The warriors scattered, their spears and machetes flying into the air. Even the witch doctor staggered backward. He fell into the fire beneath the fat man, then got up and danced around as his grass skirt burst into flames.

It was a real funny looking dance, kind of like a camera on high speed playback. Chuck wished Wilson could have been there to see it. They would be like Siskel and Ebert giving thumbs up or down, ha ha. Chuck grinned as the witch doctor hop-danced away into the jungle, smacking at his butt, yelling and whimpering. The funny little man disappeared down the same path the others had taken.

Chuck blinked. Had it really been that easy? He looked back to see if Gilligan and the others were safe, but…

He looked around.

Suddenly there weren't any fires or poles or anything. No survivors. No other castaways. He was just standing there, in a little clearing, holding his bamboo cannon with its shattered barrel. And he was all alone. So utterly alone.

_Well, so much for the men folk,_ thought Chuck. Then he got a horrible idea. He took off running into the jungle once more. "Wilson!" he screamed. "Wilson!"

He found the volleyball right where he'd left him. The girls weren't anywhere to be seen.

"What did you do with them?" Chuck demanded, looking behind Wilson. He began scouring around in the bushes for footprints.

"I don't know what you're talking about, my good fellow."

"The women! The red head. And Mary Ann! Where did you take them? Are they safe? For heaven's sake, Wilson!"

"My friend, I'm really rather worried about your mental health," said the volleyball.

"My health?" shouted Chuck. He was beside himself. "I think I'd be worrying about your own health if I were you, you little twerp."

He began chasing the volleyball through the jungle.

"They weren't real, Charles," sang the volleyball, dodging a thrown coconut. "The women, they were just figments of your delerium."

"No they weren't." Chuck let loose with another small coconut. "You're just saying that. You've got them hidden somewhere for yourself. I'll get you!"

They ran all the way back to the cave like that. By the time they reached home, neither were in the mood for fighting. They both plopped down on their beds.

"Oh, ouch," said Chuck.

"What is it, Old Man? Are you hurt?"

"No, I was expecting tiger skins or something softer. I don't know why." He rolled over. Wilson had been right. The girls weren't real. Nothing was real. He was alone on this island forever. With a volleyball for a friend. He didn't want to talk about it.

In a few minutes, Chuck Noland was asleep, dreaming of things he now realized he could never experience again in real life. Maybe tomorrow he would start making some rope out of plant fibers to occupy his mind. Just a thought. No real purpose in the task. Not really.

Wilson waited until he heard snoring, then got up and rolled silently out of the cave. It had truly been a sad and grueling day for his friend, a day in which the harsh reality of island life had again won out. The volleyball could only hope the man wouldn't take re-entry too hard. After all, Charles was the only friend he had on this island. They had weathered some real storms together, that much was certain. And it would be a sad thing if this ordeal should dampen the man's wonderful gift for imagination.

Wilson rolled down the beach and all the way back to a make-shift lean-to he'd constructed in the jungle.

"Girls?" he said, coming quietly up the path to the rustic shelter, "It's me. Your one and only caveball. Now, how might I be of service?"

* * *

_A/N: Again, thanks for reading. Remember I'm not getting paid for your amusement. The least you could do is write a little note and say, "Hey good job, I read this. I liked it. I hated it. You suck." Or something. I am only sad when I don't get any reviews. And that is most of the time, which is why, sometimes, I have to invent my own reviewers and then have them review me. Please, don't anyone write and say that I don't understand Chuck Noland, because I obviously do. Just kidding, I'll take whatever I can get._


End file.
